His eyes are quickened so with grief, <br />He can watch a grass or leaf <br />Every instant grow; he can <br />Clearly through a flint wall see, <br />Or watch the startled spirit flee <br />From the throat of a dead man. <br />Across two counties he can hear, <br />And catch your words before you speak. <br />The woodlouse or the maggot's weak <br />Clamour rings in his sad ear; <br />And noise so slight it would surpass <br />Credence: — drinking sound of grass, <br />Worm-talk, clashing jaws of moth <br />Chumbling holes in cloth: <br />The groan of ants who undertake <br />Gigantic loads for honour's sake — <br />Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin: <br />Whir of spiders when they spin, <br />And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs <br />Of idle grubs and flies. <br />This man is quickened so with grief, <br />He wanders god-like or like thief <br />Inside and out, below, above, <br />Without relief seeking lost love.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lost-love-8/
